


by light of moon

by archerhatesyou



Series: romance in the bakumatsu [1]
Category: Hakuouki
Genre: F/M, Family, Heterosexual Life Partners, Present Tense, ritual suicide, somewhat minimalist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archerhatesyou/pseuds/archerhatesyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he has no right to feel betrayed, but he just feels it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. by light of moon

The night Sano and Shinpachi return, there's commotion. The cherries are blooming now and they've been gone for a time, but they don't expect much to have changed. And yet, commotion in the evening is a bit much.

In the common room most of the candles are snuffed out, and Souji is standing before an unfamiliar woman, her back against the wall. Her palm is against his jaw, and there is no tension between them but something is wrong. Her other hand she brings to the side of his neck, and as she moves forward, he steps back, the beginnings of a grin on his lips. For a moment Sano isn't sure if they should still be here watching this, then her hand shifts, slowly, around the small blade hidden behind her fingers.

Sano and Shinpachi are leaping toward them so she lifts her hands away, opening her palms and letting the knife drop to the floor. They each grab one of her wrists, and Souji is laughing as she bitterly shakes them both off. The back of her left wrist is pressed to the center of Sano's chest as she stares Souji down, her breaths shallow, brows drawn.

Then he is lunging at her with his katana and she has drawn the one from Sano's hip, and she defends against his restrained blow with the back of the blade. Sano is just watching because all of this is _so_ crazy, and Shinpachi tries to reach for her but Sano snags his collar.

Shinpachi whispers, "What are you doing?"

"Just—wait."

"But she's—"

She and Souji both step back and assume fighting stances.

Both of them.

"If you'd like to strike me," says Souji, "try holding your weapon correctly." She's still holding the blade backwards.

Several seconds pass. Her eyes do not shift from his face.

He grins before lunging again, a flurry of strikes as playful as they are lethal, but she parries every time without offering a strike of her own. Realizing that she will not engage, he backs off; she glares as she hands the sword back to Sano grip-first. He grasps it, gaping along with Shinpachi as she takes her leave.

"We've been playing for a few days now," Souji informs them, breathing lightly as that crazy near-grin crawls across his face.

"She seems not to enjoy being your playmate," says Shinpachi.

Sano's eyes are fixed on the empty space in the doorframe where she'd fled. "Who is she?"

"Youhei something. Some relative of the Yagi, staying with them awhile. A fresh widow. She's supposed to have a couple kids but I haven't seen any new ones hanging around."

"Hey," Sano says quietly. "Why don't you leave her the fuck alone."

"Oh, I'm just trying to keep her mind off things. I do wonder how far I can bend her before she snaps."

"Snap _you_."

"I wouldn't mind if she tried, that's sort of the point."

"She had a _knife_ at your throat."

"Oh?"

"Souji. . . . You've gotten a rise out of her. Now just leave her alone. She's going through some real shit."

He's smiling, but Sano can't tell if it's in the usual teasing sense, or if it's sadder than that. "Aren't we all."

* * *

Sano doesn't see the woman again for a few days, and the differences aren't obvious. The Yagi kids are better behaved. The captains discuss the repairs made to their uniforms, and try to show off the stitches but have to hunt to find them again. The snacks sitting around in the kitchen are more abundant, and they're good.

Already there's a shortage of spear specialists, and as the instructor is out on patrol that afternoon, a recruit comes to Sano for advice on fighting indoors with a spear, in close quarters. He tries to explain that as a spear-fighter he'll never be ordered to fight indoors, but the recruit persists. "Don't take a deerhound to root out rabbits," Sano tells him. "You wanna know how to spear-fight indoors? With a sword."

That doesn't amuse the recruit so Sano has to spend his own afternoon trying to convince him that no, he won't have misplaced his sword, and that even if he did, use the battlefield. To specialize in a weapon with little versatility, you have to take up the slack yourself. Be resourceful. Think _different_. He still isn't satisfied until Sano has demonstrated everything that can go wrong with the wrong weapon—and spear is usually the wrong weapon. "You're really making me rethink my life choices here, kid." His eyes dart to Sano's wrapped gut and back up again. Which _does_ amuse Sano.

They've busted a few doors in the process, so he suffers the rest of the day with a coating of dried sweat as they make light repairs. He's glad it's not yet the season for showering outdoors. As he enters the bathing room and strips down he sees the round lid is already displaced, and someone is in the tub and Sano freezes. Because it's the woman.

She is mostly submerged and looks right at him but does not even pause in scrubbing her face with a cloth.

"I . . . I'm . . . fuck." He sucks in a breath through his teeth and reaches for his yukata. "I'm so sorry."

"I was almost finished." Her voice is a low hum. Not so much confident as assertive. Authoritative, but without ego. "I wouldn't be here if I were concerned with being caught."

"Why _aren't_ you? A household full of guys. . . ."

"This is the captains' quarters, is it not?"

"Yeah, but—have you no shame?" It's teasing, though with too much an edge of seriousness in its tone. Like—fuck, though.

"No."

"Wh—how?" He puts his yukata back on and ties the sash, before sitting down to face the door and await his turn. Because who is _he_ to squander this fortuitous event? Not that he had seen much, but if her arms are any indication, her body is much like his own—sinewy, slim, muscular.

"Once a woman has given birth, she loses all sense of shame."

This strikes him somehow; his chest tightens, and he feels lightheaded. When slowly he realizes he's laughing, he understands.

"What?"

"You're _funny_."

"It's only the truth."

"Yeah, but you have to admit, that's quite the punchline. So. . . ." _How long ago did she lose her husband?_ He reddens when he realizes what that must sound like, and then it worsens when he realizes he hadn't actually said anything. He isn't intending to hit on her—not that she isn't worthy of it, or that he wouldn't want t— _shit_. He's a dog, maybe, but he is interested in _her_. "Excuse me for being forward—I mean, you don't have to answer if you don't want to . . . where _are_ your kids? You have more than one, right?"

"Three. Circumstances separated us. I do not know their whereabouts."

"Shit." There is a slow rush of water, followed by two more, higher pitched. The gentle _splat_ of dripping on the floor that gradually subsides. "I'm sorry."

They're quiet for a time, the sound of heavy fabric deafening as she towels off. "It was a choice. I do not accept your pity." She steps past him, wearing a man's yukata speckled with water from her half-damp skin.

"Hey, wait—"

She pauses in the doorway, face angled toward the floor at his feet.

He feels silly, parked on the ground and talking to a woman's back. But he can't let her just leave. "That doesn't add up. Was it choice, or circumstance?"

"Both."

"I don't understand."

She says nothing.

"Sorry. What's your name?" he asks.

"Youhei."

"I mean your _name_."

Her shoulders relax and she faces the hallway, for just a moment. _Do people not wonder who she is?_

She turns her head to again gaze toward his feet. "Kikotsu."

In his mind's eye he spells it a dozen different ways, committing the sounds to memory, sharp and bone dry. "Hey, if . . . I mean, I'm not the best with talking, but I'm a good listener. If _you_ ever want to talk."

Her expression turns curious, but her answer is a curt nod of acknowledgement, polite refusal, before disappearing back into the house. Sano disrobes and takes the bucket to the tub, yuzu limes bobbing whole and fragrant on the surface as he dips it in.

A violent _splat_ when he dumps it over his head.

" _Goddamn._ "

* * *

Worry is out of place on Shinpachi's brow, but Sano knows him well enough to read it. He and a few of the others are heading out for Shimabara, and Sano knows he's expected to go. He never looks forward to saying no, when the mood strikes him.

But it's a little heavier, harder to lift from his tongue, now that there's a woman hanging about the house. He doesn't even know how old she is; she seems about his age, maybe a few years older. But not much, he's sure of that.

Shinpachi's worry, it says, _Be careful, Sano._

* * *

The Youhei woman is outside the common room, feet dangling over the edge of the engawa, and Sano is lounging nearby. She is magnetic, but his polarity matches hers; he wants to push himself closer, but an invisible field pushes him right back.

By the bright spring moonlight she removes the stitches from a kimono, one belonging to the matriarch of the house, in preparation for washing. It's the sophisticated black of a married woman, Yagi kamon gracing its shoulders, and the embroidery along its hem is both demure and striking, if out of season—golden cranes and pointed leaves in rusty orange against swirls of white and matcha green. Sano wonders if Youhei ever owned kimono like it. She must have, because she is far more dignified than the plain, worn patchwork things she borrows now, and it's hard to imagine her in the ostentatious furisode of youth.

Their heads lift in tandem at the sight of an approaching figure; Souji comes back spotted with blood, as he sometimes does. Word had arrived that a small number from the fury corps were causing a scene, and Souji had gone out to quell the noise. Sano had stayed back to watch the house. And because for Souji, it's mostly sport anyway. Sano lets him have it.

Souji smirks at the woman, but relents when he realizes she is not disgusted, nor intimidated, nor impressed. She blinks slowly and returns to her task.

"Blood doesn't scare you," he says.

"I've seen enough."

Souji nods. "How?"

She folds the fine strips of cloth. "I have seen too many things. There is nothing left that might scare me. Least of all a man."

"A man who revels in blood."

She shakes her head. "Least of all a man who protects his own."

For several moments, Souji does not react, until finally, for once at a loss for words, he steps away.

Sano isn't sure whether his understanding of the woman is now better or worse.

* * *

When she sits with the captains for dinner, she sits with Saitō. They communicate only in small gestures and nods, but each interaction seems to reinforce a bond that only the taciturn may share. Sano feels distant pangs of jealousy at this arrangement, but he doesn't hold it against Saitō. He just hopes to have some of her attention for himself, someday.

And when she cooks, Shinpachi and Heisuke's bickering intensifies, and Souji finishes his meals. Sometimes he even asks for seconds.

* * *

The training room is dark but it echoes with the _whoosh_ of a bokken, the thud of feet. The fury corps is out, so Sano peeks around the door. He hopes it will be his spear-fighting recruit— _Wakamoto, was it?_ —but he knows better. That would be easy. The figure there is small with hair drawn up like a man's, but in a hakama that doesn't sit quite so square on the hips, as it should on a man. For a moment he hopes Yukimura maybe, because that, he could handle. But the figure is not _quite_ so small.

She's executing flawless kata; they aren't exceptionally powerful strikes, but each is a perfect copy of the last, like prints from woodblocks. As he watches, immersed in her graceful form—lithe lines of her neck, flyaways wisping against her face—her name escapes his lips, an involuntary whisper.

There's a pause; "Harada-san." He hadn't surprised her.

Bashfully he emerges into the room. "Sorry. Uh . . . do you—need anything?"

"Join me."

He _really_ wants to but isn't sure it's the best idea in his . . . state. She's being completely serious but also _painfully_ alluring and he's wearing only the yukata he sleeps in. So. Whether he accepts or refuses, it's going to be disrespectful.

"You should know," he says, feeling quite clever, "I've trained mostly with the spear, so I doubt there's much I can offer you with my lacking sword skills. If you like, I could get one of the other captains, one of the instructors, Saitō maybe—"

"I fear that the other captains are at too high a level for me. That makes you, with self-described lacking sword skills, all the more perfect a practice partner for me, a woman and unprofessional."

Woman, _hell_ yes. Unprofessional—that's harder to argue.

_Fuck._

Her flyaways, she rakes them back into place with her nails as Sano picks a bokken off the rack. With no warning he's walloped on the thigh, and he looks up but she's just standing there with no indication that she has moved. "How—" And then his upper arm, struck just _so_ that he nearly topples. "Are you _trying_ to break something?"

"I'm a pragmatist."

"That's a yes, then."

He's prepared to parry when she moves a third time, but his triumph is short-lived, as she jabs him in the soft of his hip. "Do you _mind_?"

"You're underestimating me."

The adrenaline makes him a little angry so he swings harder than intended, but she dodges anyway. Now they're strafing slowly, a strange, still dance. His weapon is pointed at Youhei's throat, while hers is low beside her hip, as if sheathed. No amateur tactic. It keeps her hands obstructed as they shift, makes her movements harder to read. "Why were you fighting with Souji?"

"He started it."

"We never doubted that."

"I think I hate him," she says, and slices across Sano's shoulders—his right to his left, which opens a distracting gap at his collar.

"I'd hate to see what you could _really_ to do him. I hardly see these coming."

" _You're underestimating me._ "

"I'm not, I just. . . ."

Her arms fall to her sides, disappointed that he won't play along. So he whacks the side of her knee. She catches herself and just avoids collapsing, bringing her weapon back up in defense. Sinking slightly, she flexes the struck knee, working out the pain. "Nice."

"I didn't _want_ to, you goaded me." Even on one leg she looks so balanced. _Really, really muscular._

"I see now why you did not wish to swordfight."

"That bad?"

"You seem rattled. Out of your element."

"My height puts me at a disadvantage here." A sword makes him feel even taller, with no extra weight in the weapon to help his balance. "But that's hardly the problem."

She knows exactly what the problem is, but she is unwavering. She swings but it doesn't connect; now she's close and he wants to strike but she's too close to hit. He realizes her failed move was purposeful when she strikes the back of his arm just above the elbow, a spot that must have a nerve because it doesn't hurt but just feels _wrong_. "How do you _do_ that?"

"Stop holding back," she insists.

"You _really_ don't want to say that to me right now," he says. The sweat above his lip, it's more from nerves than activity.

"You think you could touch me without my permission? You saw what happened to Okita-san."

"But _he_ was holding back."

"Barely. With your lacking sword skills, I should be able to hold you off on my own strength."

"You keep bringing that up. Want me to go fetch a spear?"

"I'm afraid you've _got_ a spear."

He feels his skin prickle all over. Most women—those who aren't being paid, anyway—play dumb when it comes to this stuff, but she's. . . . "Cheeky."

_Refreshing._

She has an unparalleled awareness of not only her own body, but others' as well, like some creature sending out feelers to suck in the world around her, so filled with senses. When Souji was 'playing' with her, she'd known he would attack. _That's why she touched me,_ he realizes—determining the position of his katana as if it hung on her own hip, becoming part of his body like a drop melding into the surface of water.

With a palm she pushes at the hair plastered to her forehead. "And I worked so hard to raise my collar and hide my ankles."

"It's the wrists. And the . . . everything. It's everything."

She stares right into his eyes, an almost bored cast to her eyes, and he grows increasingly uncomfortable. And uncomfortably aroused. "I think I'm just gonna go."

"I'm sure you are."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. Uh . . . good night."

"Enjoy yourself."

His teeth catch his lip as he escapes, half from the frustration of conflict, half from the thrill of being so deftly teased. Though perhaps they're one in the same.

* * *

It's dusk and it's Shinpachi's turn to prepare dinner, but the woman volunteered to take his place so he has gone into town. Sano hangs around the courtyard, watching as Saitō and Souji have it out—Souji has the rare edge tonight—but Sano's ear is to the kitchen, his back against the adjoining outer wall. He thinks Youhei is off her game today. If she had known he's listening, she would have ordered him to come inside, to fill her silence with stories. He's not ready for that yet.

When Yukimura's pattering gait approaches, Sano gravitates closer to better eavesdrop. "Kikotsu-san!" he hears.

"Yukimura-kun. May I help you with something?"

There is a rattling of pots. "No, no! I don't mean to bother you, I've just come to make some tea for Hijikata-san."

"I assume he is overworking himself."

"Oh?" The sound of water. "That may be the case." The longer she stays, the more obvious that will become. Youhei is more mature so she has noticed it first.

"Tell him I shall not tolerate those who miss my meals."

"Yes ma'am!"

"The fire is quite hot, it shouldn't take long to boil."

"Thank you, Kikotsu-san." In the courtyard, Saitō smirks in that way of his as he nicks Souji's face. Souji mimes offense, but he's smiling too. "You know," says Yukimura, "I heard something very interesting about you."

"I'm sure you did. I seem to be legendary around here."

"Certainly, you're the only grown woman here, outside the Yagi family."

"I suppose so. What did you hear this time?"

"Is it true you are a master of the sword?"

"Of course not. I have some training, but that is all."

"Harada-san sure seemed impressed with you. He's been raving all day about your match, showing off his bruises."

"There were . . . extenuating circumstances that may have affected his judgement."

"What, was he drunk?"

"No. . . ." Sano grins in place of a laugh.

"Regardless—tell me about yourself! How did you get such impressive training? I mean—to hold your own against a captain! Please, senpai!"

He steals a glance through a hole in the shōji, courteously poked through by one of the Yagi children; the woman offers the slightest smile at Yukimura's enthusiasm, which tickles the girl. Sano is likewise pleased—he hadn't yet seen her smile. Not wishing to be caught, he sits back against the solid wall once more.

"There is little to tell. I was raised in a samurai family, and like most girls of my status I was taught to handle a naginata. However I preferred the constancy of a sword and requested continued instruction."

"What do you mean, constancy?"

"I wished to carry a blade with me at all times, something large and unconcealed, so as to deter thievery and other crimes. It is impractical to carry a naginata to market and back. A katana is much more easily handled."

"Did you often move about the city on your own? I mean—a woman without an escort. . . ."

"That was part of the reason I carried a full katana. To give the impression that my intention was not to entice men, and that I was not to be antagonized. Besides, I was well-known in my small community as the head-of-house in my husband's absence. My skill and position were already established, so my reputation was unlikely to be damaged by venturing out independently. I am not a timid woman."

Sano is relieved when Shinpachi returns; there is inexplicable pressure behind his ribs. Silently he eases himself up and joins his friend across the yard, loping slow from the ache in his chest. "You up for a match?"

"Here," and Shinpachi pushes a small bundle into his hands, tilting his chin toward the kitchen.

"What is it?"

"She mentioned wanting to make repairs. Does that look right?"

Sano unfolds the bundle and holds it up to a torch; inside is a little spool of orange silk thread. "I don't know much about colors."

"I asked the clerk but I'm kind of colorblind. Can you—"

"That's obvious just looking at you."

Shinpachi rolls his eyes. "Ask her for me."

"I appreciate it, I guess." Sano folds up the little bundle and hands it back. "But I can't, you should give it to her."

He shrugs. "Why not?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll figure it out."

He shrugs again, but the lines on his forehead are far more pronounced this time.

* * *

"Kid's getting his _ass_ handed to him," says Heisuke.

Indeed, watching Wakamoto "train" with Saitō is more like witnessing a schooling. He's happy the guy is branching out, but Sano does feel kind of bad for him. It's hard to fight by torchlight alone, but that is part of the challenge in this lesson. "He reminds you of somebody, don't you think?"

"Yeah," says Heisuke. "But at least this guy's good with a weapon at all." Yukimura pesters them about who they mean, and Wakamoto flops flat on his back, so desperate is he to dodge Saitō's quick-draw. "Right? I mean, he _is_ good with a spear, right?"

"Serviceable."

"Huh. That's reassuring."

Yukimura waves with a small smile; across the yard, Youhei returns a nod. She hands a note, which is probably from Hijikata, to Saitō.

"I almost never see her smile," says Yukimura. Her elbows are on her knees, chin in her palms, eyes distant. "But she doesn't look sad either."

They watch as the woman exchanges terse words with Saitō. It's more than Sano has ever seen them speak to one another. "What do you think, Heisuke?" he says.

"I think. . . ." In the distance Wakamoto dusts himself off and takes his moment of reprieve to double over and catch his breath. "Sometimes I wonder if she really exists. She doesn't really talk to us, or even look at us most of the time. She's like. . . ."

"She walks between us," says Yukimura, "but not _among_ us."

"A ghost," says Sano.

"Well. . . ." Heisuke shrugs. "Yeah. She's checked out."

"I'm not sure what you mean," says Yukimura.

"Think about it—her husband is dead and her kids are gone, you can't be as functional as she is without giving something up, you know? She's coping by not living. She just . . . exists."

Sano suddenly feels very sad. Because Heisuke is right.

The chagrined student slumps before Saitō, who chooses to offer a few more pointers rather than obey his summons.

"Kid thought he was safe," says Heisuke.

"How old are you again?"

"Shut up, Sano-san."

* * *

Later that night, for the first time, Youhei approaches Sano. His head is so filled of Heisuke's theory that he feels roused from a daydream. She says, "About the thread."

The knot behind his ribs tugs tighter. "Was it right?"

"Nagakura-san said it was from you."

 _Bastard._ "He lied. He bought it the night you took over for him in the kitchen."

"But wanted me to believe _you_ had."

Sano shrugs. "Did it match?"

"Well enough."

"He wanted me to give it to you. I said no, but he went and did this anyway."

"Maybe so you and I would have this conversation."

"Maybe." _That might be giving him too much credit._

"Why didn't you take it?"

"Well—Shinpachi's the one who bought it."

"Yet offered you a chance to impress me."

So that's a thing she has noticed. Even if she doesn't know the full extent of his intentions. Neither does Sano, to be honest. But it might be nice not to tiptoe around it anymore.

"It was a thank-you gift," he says, "I wasn't the one that thought of it. I think you're aware of me anyway, something like that would have been too deceptive. Go-betweens aren't my style."

His guts are wringing, is it really okay to have admitted all this, but after a few moments she answers simply, "Nor mine." She stands straight, steps down into the courtyard, dark but for starlight and panes of paper that glow without illuminating the space around them. She doesn't bother with sandals. When she starts down the path it's slow; she's waiting. Sano follows.

They walk together, and her hand is so close that he wants to take it. Instead he says, "Tell me about your husband."

Chin tucked low, she glances at him, surprised that he should choose to start a conversation here. Her eyes close and she keeps moving, slow, her toes dragging in the dirt beside the flagstone path. "He would have fit in here."

"How so?"

"Good-natured. But serious. Almost to the point of caricature."

"Sounds like Hijikata-san."

"Except that he could smile. He could laugh."

"So like me, then."

"Are you very serious?"

Sano shrugs. "He sounds like a contradiction."

"He was. If something seemed black and white, he saw the grey. If it seemed complex, he had a simple answer."

"He sounds _contrarian_."

"Then I'm misrepresenting him. He was . . . creative. Always looking for the truth. Never took the first answer at face value."

"Is it hard to talk about him?"

"No." She presses a hand to her belly. "It's nice."

"Is it hard to use the past tense?"

"Ah—yes, that is a bit difficult."

"I'm sorry. We can stop."

"I'd rather not."

So she doesn't, and for a while, Sano listens. Her speech comes slowly, stilted; there are more pauses than words, each pause filled of more memories than the story she is telling. She talks about his philosophy of parenting, that agency is paramount for a child—the illusion of it in their youngest years, true decision-making power as they begin to ask questions. "I would have liked to see him with the children here," she says, looking across the Yagi home. "I do my best with them, what I think he would do." Sano doesn't ask for any names, because if she wanted to say them, he would hear them. They circle the compound a few times like this as a chill clings in the air, until they naturally stop again where they began, where things are now much different. He feels _close_. She hesitates at the steps, looks down at her feet, a thin layer of dust all over.

"Wait here," says Sano.

His skin is all nerves as he fills a bucket from the well and snatches a cloth from someone's laundry. When he comes back she reaches for it, frowning when Sano doesn't relinquish it.

"Sit," he says.

He is astonished when she does, and he sits down beside her and motions for her feet, dipping a corner of the cloth in the water. With deliberate movements he begins wiping the dirt away, light and slow, like handling ceramic. His legs are crossed and her ankles are resting on them; she's careful not to dirty his clothes, which is the least of his fucking concerns because he's thinking about how easy it would be to slide his hands up into her clothes, and that maybe she would let him, or maybe even wants him to, because she didn't have to let him do this.

But he doesn't.

Instead he says, "I can be serious."

He's watching his hands pat her feet dry but he doesn't really see them. She touches a loose lock of hair near his face—he feels a tug, hears the crunch, as it slowly rolls between her fingertips. He's not looking but her skin is all he can see, white in his periphery.

And he thinks there must be something very, very wrong with him when his hair falls back into place and she stands and goes back inside the house without contest.

With an unsteady exhale, Sano steps down off the stairs and empties the bucket over his head.

* * *

This becomes ritual. After dinner in the evenings, once she runs out of chores imposed only by herself, they stroll the complex side-by-side, never touching and rarely looking at one another. They don't converse, or have discussions. Their time consists of one telling stories while the other listens. Hers was an arranged marriage; the first time she saw him, she says, was the day they were wed. That day she felt lucky that he wasn't an ogre, but was underwhelmed by his looks. When she admitted this to him with great shame years later, he just laughed. "By then," she says, "he knew I thought he was more handsome than anyone. He didn't hold my superficial tastes against me. He was more pleased that it worked out in his favor."

Sano talks about Shieikan, that he never studied there but it felt more like home than home. "A lot of us were like that," he says. "A bunch of filthy young vagabonds, hanging around together under one wing. Some things don't change." He talks about conspiring with Souji to smuggle stink bugs into Hijikata's medicine box; when Youhei recounts a similar incident with her oldest and a certain sewing chest, Sano's fierce laughter draws some of the recruits outside to investigate. She talks about watching babies learn to walk, and he talks about the delayed pain of killing. She wears sandals, and Sano thinks about when she touched his hair, when she placed the back of her wrist against his skin.

Then her eyes are closed, a sharp inhale through the nose, a long, slow exhale. "What's wrong, are you hurt?"

She says nothing, and there is no other hint, besides maybe the muscles under her eyes tensing, palms pressing against her stomach. "Hey," he says. "Let me get—"

"It's fine."

" _Fine?_ You're in a hell of a lot of pain right now. You don't have to pretend for any of us."

"It is an old wound."

"There?"

"My last child had to be cut from me. It's still—healing, it's still . . . sharp, sometimes." Her eyes haven't opened.

"That's the most awful thing I've ever heard." She turns from him, makes for the path. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To walk. It helps to move."

"Let me come with you."

"Don't," and he hears it as a command, earnest and calm, without ego. So he doesn't follow.

* * *

But he can send Yukimura after her. He doesn't sleep, so a lantern is still lit and Yukimura knows it's alright to visit him. "How is she?" he asks as she slides the door closed behind her.

"Resting. I helped her bathe and brewed valerian and lavender, so she should be sleeping soon as well." Yukimura sits on her knees without saying anything. She's looking at her hands in her lap.

"What's the matter?"

"Mm." She shakes her head, but it's suspect, the way she bites her lip and avoids his eyes.

"Spit it out." When she doesn't move, Sano sits up, looks at her sideways. "Talk to me."

"I think . . . I think she's committed seppuku."

"Why? You saw a scar?"

"Yes."

He shakes his head. "One of her children was born by teiōsekkai. That should explain what you saw."

"But Kikotsu-san has two scars."

"She has had three children. Once it's done, isn't it safer—"

"You don't understand." This gives him pause. Rarely is Yukimura so insistent, so confident in her opinions. "My father never performed the procedure himself, but I'd seen its scars on his patients before. I know what they're supposed to look like."

"Are they vertical or horizontal?"

"That's not the point."

"What is the point, then."

"The incision is always below the belly button. She has one scar below, from the delivery of her child, and one above. Like yours, Harada-san."

He feels the color drain from his face; if he'd been standing he may have collapsed. It's now such a distant memory that normally he can divorce himself from his youthful mistake with a drink and a laugh and silly antics, but now the memory of pain floods his body—not the localized pain of a cut, but a full-body agony of desperate nausea spilling from its confines.

Yukimura speaks in a whisper now. "I think she has seen much more terrible things than she lets on."

* * *

He knows he has no right to feel betrayed, but he just feels it. The next day he doesn't seek her out right away; he's far too angry and needs the time to settle. So he waits until the period they normally meet, after dark in that courtyard outside the kitchen. And while he probably doesn't wait long enough, he's angry. He has to see her.

It doesn't take much when he goes looking. He stops in the middle of the common room, because she is just outside it, sitting with a kimono at her knees and pulling lengths of thread with a needle. Her hair is glossy in the half-moonlight.

"How can you see what you're doing?"

She pauses a moment, absorbs his voice, before resuming her work. "They're just basting stitches. They don't need to be accurate."

"Why are you wearing a man's yukata?" It's coupled with a man's obi, narrow and simple and exposing curves that women's kimono seek to conceal, and it makes him _mad_.

"Easier to wear," she says. "No slits under the arms, so a second or third layer isn't strictly necessary. I've always found women's clothing too warm."

"Kikotsu-dono."

She turns such that she doesn't really face him, but it means she is listening.

"Show me."

Confused, she shakes her head.

"Yukimura said you have a scar."

This time she comes to a full stop, lays her hands down. "You know the story. It is a woman's scar, the result of measures to end a prolonged labor."

"I mean the other one."

Now she looks directly into his eyes. Sano steps forward, burning as her gaze follows him. "She swore she wouldn't tell," she says.

"She did hesitate." He holds out his palm. "Don't blame her. I insisted."

Youhei looks at his hand but doesn't move. "May I finish this?"

"No."

For a moment her brows raise. "Let me fold it again."

"No." He beckons with his fingers. "Now."

"It doesn't belong to me. Where can I hang it?"

Again he motions vaguely for her hand, but her hands are full and she stands up out of seiza without help anyway. He grabs her wrist, feeling that if he doesn't hold on she will disappear, and leads her to his quarters.

She spreads the kimono out across the tatami, its lining loose inside, but he doesn't say anything because it's not his place. He knows his orders amount only to wishes. So he kneels across from her, smoothing out the wrinkles where he can, watching as she matches the seams.

"A few weeks after my husband's death," she murmurs, folding the cloth as crisp as paper. The moonlight is blinding blue against the curves of her jaw, and it's so lovely, painful, that Sano shivers. "So many of my neighbors' men had died. It was just us women left. And we knew the Chōshū were coming. Most of the women had superficial training with naginata, but nothing enough to hold off a band of joui. So we . . . agreed. We sent the older children off with the babies, leaving six grown women. Four widows and two women whose husbands were yet missing. All of us, samurai wives. So we agreed. I was the only one trained with the sword, so I volunteered to go last. I helped them bind their legs."

"You acted as second? For all of them?" The skill was there, she may indeed have been able to deliver the right killing blow—but Sano himself might not have had the fortitude required to watch so many friends die by his own hand.

"It was my duty. When it was complete I barely had the strength left to cut myself, but the bravery of my companions bolstered me. I was weakened and I do not doubt that the cut I made was far too shallow, but I intended to sit until I could bleed no more, watching over their proud bodies. This is how the Chōshū found me, only minutes later. I don't know if my actions impressed them, or the state of affairs in that room touched them, but they at least had the decency not to defile me."

"Kikotsu-dono. . . ."

"I tried to reason with them, but they refused to allow me my death. I had no strength left to resist their medic. I suppose it was my punishment. Perhaps I disgraced my companions with my own shallow cut. I chose an honorable death, and had the audacity to choose the man's way, but failed to carry it out. . . ." She nods solemnly. "That must be it."

"Kikotsu—you make me feel like an idiot."

"What?"

"I said I'm an idiot. I attempted seppuku too."

"I know. Everyone knows. The crest on your back is quite the advertisement."

"But do you know why?"

"No."

"For _no_ reason."

She shakes her head; a question.

"I was goaded into it. I was a dumb country boy practicing the blade and some higher-ranked pricks said I wouldn't even be able to kill myself correctly. I ended up proving them right. Compared to you . . . I didn't even deserve the attempt."

"And yet in the end, we both failed."

"Sure, but your circumstances—"

"Are ultimately irrelevant."

He gives a single laugh, humorless. "You really are a samurai wife."

"That's the difference between us. You had never run a household in a husband's absence; you had not borne his children and raised them by your hand. You were yet a child yourself, with the spirit of a man but little of his experience. I find your actions far more excusable than mine."

"But circumstances are ultimately irrelevant."

Her head tilts.

"See? You've got a double standard going."

"That's the way of things."

"Because you're female? Bullshit, you're _far_ stronger than any man—"

"Harada. This conversation is over."

"Yeah. You're right."

He then locks her in a kiss.

* * *

When they fuck, it's angry. At first he's gentle, unsure of her conviction, hands light against her neck as their mouths meet. But he shouldn't have been unsure. She bites down on his lip and she shoves him, the angle of her brows severe, but makes no move to widen the gap between them. Her skin is flushed, eyes glassy and wild.

His palms fit into the crooks of her elbows, squeezing tight as their mouths meet again, and she wrests her arms free, fists clenched, but the suction on his bottom lip doesn't stop. He growls and she mars the skin of his shoulder with her teeth, sighing impatiently as he plants bruises like tendrils of ivy on her hips. She responds in kind, dotting his thighs with strong fingertips, nails raking raised lines on his back that burn in the open evening air. When they fuck it's angry because her presence is like a spell and he hates what she has been doing to herself, believing of herself, and he wants to make it stop and he doesn't _have_ to be gentle, it's _angry_ because she fancies herself to exist in liminal spaces, a sloped cliff sliding toward the world of the dead and she hates that his hooks have sunk in and he's reeling her backwards, back toward the mundane, droning world of those who remain. She hates him for it, for reminding her that there are things about this world that she loves, that there yet exist things and people that she cares about, that living is a thing she should not passively accept but _do_. He can feel that she hates the heat of his skin under her hands, hates the weight of his body beneath hers, and against everything she has been clearing from her soul, she hates that she _wants_ something.

* * *

Sano wakes to find her staring at him in the dark, chin on the backs of her hands, hands on his chest. "Sorry," he says, dragging his knuckles across his eyes.

Hands slide away, arms encircle him, chin burrows in. "You're always apologizing to me." He likes that she rests her full weight on him. There's too much pressure on one spot, especially when she speaks, and he can feel an ache building there. But he doesn't want her to move.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

Her attention is full on his mouth, won't look at his eyes. "Yes."

"Why?" He knows the color of his own eyes, but not hers. It's strange that he has only ever seen her by moonlight, firelight flickering dim, as if she only comes out at dusk. He might really believe she's a ghost, if not for the fact that Shinpachi and Souji and Yukimura have spoken of her, talked with her, touched her.

She shifts her head to the side, cheek flat and warm against the sore spot she's carved above his heart. "Instinct, I suppose."

"I'm not a kid, you know."

"It seems wrong to leave someone so vulnerable."

"I'm not worth losing sleep over."

She gazes across the room, but he's not sure what she can see in the darkness. He looks too, but can only see heavy blue shapes blurring into black. Time has passed, so the moon no longer shines directly into the room.

"Marry me."

This he says on instinct too. Her expression doesn't change, almost as if she hasn't heard him, but she has.

"Don't give me that crap," he says quietly. "I know you think you're damaged. But you're . . . a great fucking cook. You're sharp, and strong in more ways than one. And you're beautiful and you can kick my ass with a swo—"

"What was that last thing?"

He laughs and brings her closer, placing his lips against the top of her head. "Let me give you a child."

"I have children."

"Where?" He doesn't mean it to be cruel. He can't see her, but she does not tense, and she does not melt. Listening. "I think you did the right thing, sending them away and doing what you did for your friends. But I'm . . . I'm _really_ glad you didn't die that day." She's listening, and among all of the other wild, stupid, shameless things he's done and said tonight, _that_ thought, the fact that she is listening, is what puts butterflies in his throat. So he talks them out. "I also think you don't _feel_ alive unless you have something to protect. I think it's just who you are. So I want . . . to give you something to protect. I want to give you a child. And I want to help you look for your kids."

For a long time, she says nothing. He feels words building in her chest, but they are hesitant in a way that is strange; not searching, but uncertain.

Finally she settles on, "Why would you do that for me?"

"Because you love them." He puts a hand in her hair and closes his fist, gently, the strands filling the crooks between his fingers. "Because you love their father and I don't want to dishonor his memory by leaving his children out in the unknown. I want to show him the respect he deserves because I respect you." She squeezes his waist, face nestled against his body. "Hey, wait, you're not . . . _crying_?" Sniffles. "I didn't think you knew _how_."

"Don't you want something of your own, something new? Someone young, pure, someone without—"

"Hell no. _No_ I don't want someone pure, have you _met_ me?"

Her skin is tense against him, shrinking back, willing herself to dissipate. But he tightens his arms around her, because he wants her to stay, to remain real.

He wants to see her in the sunlight.

* * *

By daybreak she is gone, but it makes Sano smile. He wonders if a youkai has charmed them all into believing illusions, but he feels too good. He wants to talk to Shinpachi, but he isn't sure what to say, or why he even needs to tell him. He just knows that he does.

So he tells him everything.

* * *

When Sano reaches the back door of the inn, someone is dead. A spear is lying there too, and he holds little hope that it's not Wakamoto—but then there he is, panting heavily beside the door, one hand on his haft and the other on a knee.

Sano slaps him on the back. "You did good." He gives him a reassuring shove as he scans the scene. One dead Chōshū, one dead Shinsengumi, and Wakamoto alive. "You're okay."

"No good."

"What's no good?"

He's still swallowing air in his attempt to speak. "Harada-san—"

"Take it easy."

He gulps. "There's not—these guys. . . . Something—they're not right. It's not—"

"Calm down. String a sentence together first."

"They're _monsters_."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Way too fast—unnatural. All of it."

Fuck. It has to be the oni. "Who's in there? Are they okay?"

"I don't know. Kondō-kyokuchou, Nagakura-san—I don't know. I don't know if they can—I don't know. I don't—"

"Okay, it's okay, I get it. It's fine. You did good." Sano peeks indoors, but it's too dark and it's hard to pick out their voices in the din of battle. The fight is still going strong; Kondō and the others must be alright. "Let's just watch the door."

Wakamoto puffs out a breath, as if in relief, and his head is between his knees.

Then comes the hardest part. The waiting is a lesson even Sano has yet to master. For a few minutes the recruit is content to calm his breathing, but soon the clash of swords inside the inn begins to grate them both. Wakamoto winces at the sound of a body thrown against the other side of the wall, just to his back; Sano recognizes the grunt from sparring, but he can't come up with the name because the face was usually hidden behind a training mask. When the gurgling begins, Wakamoto is stiff, shoulders squared, jaw taut and eyes wide. Sano shakes him loose, because that's the lesson. To practice spear is to stand guard for the dying gasps of comrades.

A pair of joui attempt to slide in behind them, turning Wakamoto into a berserker—the work is sloppy but he's got one cut down before Sano can even move. The second man pulls his injured friend out of reach, and as they break into a limping run Sano has to stop his charge from giving chase. "Take it easy." The kid's trying to protest but his words are a mess. "The scouts will see them. We stay on the premises."

All of that is forgotten the moment he sees Youhei.

His feet are leaden as he steps toward her, and she sees him so she comes forward as well and for once he wishes that she were a ghost. "What the _hell_ are you doing here."

She mops the sweat from her hairline, and he hates how pretty she is in this moment. "Intel arrived suggesting the Chōshū were here, and your souchou sent us to warn Hijikata. Yukimura split off with him—"

"And _message received_ , so what are you doing here?" He has never been angry to see her—or is it fear? Wakamoto has started up again, muttering _I don't know, I don't know_ and Sano wants him to shut up because Youhei looks worried. "We're fine here," says Sano. "He's just shaken up." Maybe it's too much for him. Maybe Sano should send him back, he can have Youhei escort him—

From the upstairs window, there's commotion—a shout in Souji's voice, the shrill scream of metal.

When Sano turns back, the woman is gone.

"Stay," he says, throwing down his weapon, and whether Wakamoto hears him or if he even can hear, Sano doesn't know, but he is already inside, sword—gone, she has drawn his sword so he picks one off a fallen joui before taking the stairs three at a time. He doesn't see her, so he hopes she has disappeared into the city, or at worst that she has just run straight through to the inn's front door to return to Sannan-san like he wanted.

But he knows better.

In a room upstairs, Sano first sees Souji, in one piece but crumpled in the corner across from the door, and then as the axis of his vision shifts—a golden-haired spectre of a man, delicate and unbreakable. Between the two men, Youhei shares the space with a streak of moonlight, shining.

The oni hefts his sword from her body, dissipates into the night before Souji can scramble to his feet, he's leaning out the window overlooking the street and he's saying something in a captain's tone of voice but Sano can't parse it because _she is going to die tonight_.

Somehow she is standing, but her knees are weak beneath her so Sano fits his palms into the crooks of her elbows, the sleeves of a borrowed old patchwork kimono, squeezing tight as she sinks into him and she touches his hair but he can't hear anything. He is relieved when Shinpachi appears in the doorway across the room, his hand dripping blood as Souji, unharmed and for once at a loss for words, stands watching from under the summer moonlight. Its glow, blue and bright like the morning, either illuminates or obscures the color of her eyes, and her face is sad and serene and Sano hates her for it, for reminding him that there is little else about this world that he loves, that there yet exist things and people that he must protect, that living is still his obligation. He hates the warmth of her blood under his hands. And even though it means he was right, he hates that she is fulfilled.


	2. epilogue

Shinpachi knows there's not much Sano ever wanted. He was always the most forward of the men, the most plain, but it somehow made him no less complex. In fact it only ever muddied Shinpachi's image of him, so many opinions and feelings left out in the open to commingle and shift and evolve. But at his core, Sano never really changed.

The scrap of paper in his jacket, he's looked at it so many times, left it warm and wearing thin in his pocket for so long, that it's very close to coming apart at its folds. Sometimes he thinks he has lost the thing, only to find it in the wrong pocket, placed carelessly in haste, but it's always there. Why the hell he keeps it, he's not sure—he's long since memorized what it says. Maybe he just feels more comfortable having the reminder, this goal that means nothing to him, except that it meant something to Sano.

There's a fairly wealthy family with some land, and on it is a small guest house they rent to a few young siblings. In exchange for room and board, the oldest works as a maidservant for the proprietor. He's a pompous old fart who, upon discovering that he was a Shinsengumi captain, makes assumptions about Shinpachi's politics and proceeds to brag about his days as a hatamoto under Iemochi, how many of his sons served directly under Yoshinobu, how many koku his domain was worth. (Six hundred or six thousand, Shinpachi doesn't remember which, and really he just _can't_ care.)

"If you're looking to collect a debt," the man says, "all I can say is, good luck to you."

"Gotta try." Even that feels too much like humoring the guy, but Shinpachi has come in supplication, so he obliges with a lie.

"You did good work for the shogunate, son."

"For all it was worth."

"You held onto your integrity until the end. That counts for something."

 _I wasn't there with Hijikata._ "Thank you, sir." _And you wouldn't know integrity if it punched you in the ass._

The old man says the rental house lies very near the creek bed, not quite the lowest point in the valley, but close. To Shinpachi's eyes, it may as well be. It's _so_ near the creek bed that smooth stones, sand so fine it's like mud, run right underneath the house—he notices little feet and hands have recently made imprints there—and the place is on its last leg. The weather has been dry for a few weeks, but the posts underneath the house are showing obvious signs of rot, so the creek probably flows and floods with some frequency. The old man clearly doesn't care a whit for his charges and even less for the roof over their heads. Shinpachi wonders how many nights they've spent on moldy tatami, on damp, musty futons.

At the front door he calls out, and within moments a young girl appears. "Do you know the name Youhei?" Shinpachi asks.

The response is less than warm, skittish like a feral animal, and he's never seen such contempt on a child's face. She looks tougher than some of the yakuza garbage who wander the streets and think themselves big enough to carry weapons in their belts.

"Coming," he hears from inside the house. An older girl emerges, hardly a teenager, and gently pushes the littler one aside, adding, "Finish the wash, please." She wears a kodachi. He doubts she can use it but it's real and Shinpachi figures the old man doesn't know about it. She looks tired, and wary, but he can't blame her for that and hell, at least she's not hostile.

"Youhei," he says again. "Are you Youhei?"

"Why?"

He's not sure how to explain, and he doesn't want to give himself away if this isn't the right Youhei. Else he'll be _royally_ fucked, he's pretty sure even a country urchin could swindle him if he's not careful. All this time and not once has he considered how this conversation would go. He hears a voice call out _ane-ue_ from inside the house, a male voice. _Three kids._ He starts to feel nervous. "Can you tell me your mother's name?"

She chews the inside of her lip; her eyes are glued to the bokken at Shinpachi's waist. He's regretting not getting friendly with the authorities first, like _maybe_ this would be going smoother if he were accompanied by someone she recognized, someone kinder than that old fuck she works for, but damn it all if he didn't trust bushidō to have outlived samurai and _hell_ if he was going to trust some self-important, undisciplined, no-name local police—

"Kikotsu."

All the breath escapes him, and he nearly collapses under the weight of his relief. He croaks out a noise, working for words. "I . . . I'm sorry."

"What?"

He's digging in his pack. "I'm sorry—" He shouldn't have had all of it on him, but this place had felt _right_ in a way the others hadn't. His fingers grasp the key. "Just a moment." He takes a step back, and the girl's eyes narrow. "Just a minute," he pleads.

Shinpachi jogs to his cart, _is this really happening,_ he'd be running if his legs didn't feel like jelly, _am I finally putting an end to this_ and he thinks he is because the name is unusual enough that she couldn't have just pulled it out of thin air, so he has all the confirmation he needs. The cart tracks through the mud to the door, he's glad their home is so rural and that the old man's house is too far away to see. Shinpachi gestures for her hand, and she's too confused to disobey, so there's her open palm and he puts the key in it. He nods at the chest in the cart.

"Do you have—is there an adult you trust?" he asks as she leans over from the engawa, unlocks it and lifts the lid. "Someone who can protect you?"

The girl is not blinking. "There must be five hundred ryō here."

"I'm dating myself with this obsolete stuff, but I just can't bring myself to trust the paper notes they've been circulating. At least gold will always be worth something."

She's looking at it with uncertainty, concern; she's smart. She's wondering what the catch is, and he's not sure how to convince her there isn't one.

"I don't understand," she says finally. She closes the lid, locks it, gives back the key.

He pockets it, for now. That's fine. "I'm sorry it took me so long to find you."

"Who are you?"

"I'm no one. Not anymore. Well, not to you." _Shit._ "Have you heard of the Shinsengumi?"

"They're infamous around here. My younger brother wants to study Tennen Rishin like Kondō."

Shinpachi feels he might cry, he's so relieved. Whatever their differences, Kondō was one hell of a swordsman, and it's nice to know some backwater kid still respects that. He nods at the chest again. "This guy—he wasn't your father. But he admired your mother. He wanted to take care of you. He wanted you to have this."

He doesn't mention that two hundred are his own, guiltily added as interest over time, compensation for his own failure. Now seeing the conditions they're living in, not a piece of it feels wasted.

The girl opens her mouth, forming tentative shapes before speaking. "I know . . . she wouldn't have abandoned us," she says.

"No. She wouldn't."

"You knew her?" She speaks in the past tense.

"Not well." He can't help the apologetic tone of his voice; as little as he knew, he probably remembers this girl's mother better than she does.

Her mouth pinches small, considering. "Where is _he_?"

"Died a couple years back."

"In the war?"

"Yeah."

"After my mother?"

Shinpachi hesitates. It's obvious she has long since accepted that her mother was dead, but he still hadn't wanted to be the person to make it _real_. It's just his duty now. He nods.

"He asked you to do this?"

"Yeah. I guess so." Not really—it was just the only thing Sano wanted in the end, and so it became the only way for Shinpachi to honor him.

"And you've done it."

"I just wish I'd made it sooner. This house—it looks like shit. If you don't mind."

She looks at the chest again with narrowed eyes, still suspicious, still thinking. "You're not very smart, are you, danna?"

He is so surprised, and her eyes go wide as he starts laughing. He laughs like he hasn't laughed since Sano, and Heisuke, and all the rest. "No, ojou-sama," he says after he gets to breathe again. "No I'm not."

She considers him, his teasing address, looks at the ground. Then she steps aside, hand hooked around the doorframe. "Would you like some tea?"


End file.
